


I'll Come Back (When You Call Me)

by Celebrimbor1999



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion Friendship, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Day 7 Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, More tags to be added, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Writer's Month 2020, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor1999/pseuds/Celebrimbor1999
Summary: When Geralt is injured by a Nilfgaard scouting party, the only person Ciri can think to call is her confidant and best friend – Julien, the bard who wintered in Cintra as her music teacher. But there’s more to Julien than meets the eye, and Ciri has much stronger creatures watching over her than a mere witcher. A creature!Jaskier fic for Writer’s Month Day 7: Hurt/Comfort
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 38
Kudos: 780
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	1. And Then That Word Grew Louder

Ciri had always looked forward to Julien’s visits.

He had first appeared at court when she was four. Her grandmother hadn’t been pleased. She almost had Julien imprisoned when he’d walked into the castle, worried about _that witcher_ showing up. Even though no one was meant to talk about it around her, Ciri knew even then that _that witcher_ was going to show up one day and steal her away.

But Grandmother didn’t imprison Julien. He had said something to her – _Remember your roots, Calanthe of Cintra, and that who watered them –_ and it made her mouth go tight and small. They’d moved to Grandmother’s private rooms then, so Ciri didn’t know what was said, but by the end of it, she had a new music tutor.

He came every winter. After the first snows, he would appear in court – Ciri could never convince him to tell her how he did it – armed only with his lute and a song. His very presence seemed to warm the castle better than a raging bonfire, and when he left (a week before the end of winter proper), it was like he took all that warmth with him.

Julien would always bring gifts for her, little trinkets from across the Continent. A small notebook, perfect to hide under her pillow, decorated with a snarling lioness. A posy of pressed flowers, and seeds so that she might grow them herself in spring. A bracelet of woven threads, silver and blue and green, from Skellige. But during her 8th winter, after the passing of her mother, Julien gave her a most precious gift.

They had just finished her lesson for the day. Julien had convinced her bodyguard (a stern woman named Beatrice, who slipped her sweet meats and patted her head when she had nightmares) to let them practise on the battlements, in a little used area. Julien always took every opportunity to enjoy the brisk winter breeze. He never wore anything but a light cloak over his doublet, but never seemed cold. Indeed, when she cuddled close to his side after pushing away his lute, the very air around her seemed warmer.

“Dear one,” He began slowly, “I have a gift for you.”

“Another one?” She asked, looking up, “But you already gave me a gift.” It was a beautiful pin for her hair, made of gold and deep red stone, carved and twisted into the shape of a bird taking flight. Grandmother had a pinched look on her face when she saw it but approved of Ciri wearing it with her bright red dress at the feast tonight.

“Well, yes, but this is a different gift. A special gift.” He tugged something out of his pocket, wrapped in a piece of black velvet. “Here.”

Inside was a simple necklace. On the silver chain was a tear drop shaped glass pendant. Trapped inside the pendant was a tiny piece of something red. Ciri squinted to see it through the curved glass. “What is it?”

Julien laughed and took the pendant back, swinging it around her neck a moment later. The chain was long enough for the pendant to hide under her dress. “It’s a very special necklace, Cirilla.”

The use of her full name made her stop playing with the tiny tear drop and look up again. Julien rarely used her full name – always _dear one,_ or _little one,_ or _little lioness._ “How special?”

“The _special-ist.”_ He whispered. “I want you to always wear this Cirilla – never take it off.” When she went to protest, Julien shook his head. “No, I’ve already spoken to the Queen about this and she agreed. I need you to promise me that you’ll _never_ take this off. _Ever.”_

“But _why?”_ She was becoming scared now. Julien was meant to be _nice_ and _funny_ and _happy,_ always smiling and playing his lute, writing silly songs to make her laugh and pretty lullabies to help her sleep. He wasn’t meant to be _serious._

“Because Destiny can be rough, dear one, and it doesn’t care who it hurts as long as things go its way. I want to make sure that, no matter what happens, you’ll be safe.” Julien said. He tapped at the tear drop she was still holding, making it ring like crystal. “This pendant means that you’re under my protection. It has a little piece of me in it – if you’re ever in trouble, I want you to hold it and call my name. No matter where I am, I’ll hear you and come to your side.”

“Julien?” She asked. Bringing the pendant closer to her face, she could just see how the red scrap was flat and kinda fluffy, skinny on one end and wide on the other. After a moment of twisting it back and forth, she could see a kind of _shine_ on it, like it had been coated in gold dust. It looked a little bit like… “A feather?”

He huffed and tapped her nose. “Yes, a feather. And…” here, Julien looked almost sad. “I’m going to tell you something you can’t tell anyone else. If your Grandmother knew I told you, I might not be able to come back.”

Ciri immediately grabbed onto the arm still wrapped around her waist. “No! I promise I won’t tell – you can’t go away _forever!”_

“I’ll never truly leave you little one, I promise,” Julien squeezed her back, “But your Grandmother doesn’t like my true name, even if she knows it, so you can’t tell her.”

“Okay. What’s your _true_ name?”

And then he leaned closer. When he whispered it into her ear, she felt the pendant in her hands heat up.

“ _Jaskier.”_

Jaskier.

_Jaskier._

**_“JASKIER!”_** Ciri screamed, hands pressed against Geralt’s side. “ _Oh please, Jaskier, I need your help, **please!”**_ She scrambled for one, desperate moment for her pendant – the pendant she’d never taken off in the five years she’d owned it. “ ** _JASKIER!”_**

Underneath her, Geralt groaned and tossed his head. “J-jask…?”

“It’s going to be okay Geralt, you’re going to be okay.” She rambled. In the back of her head, she heard the voice of her Grandmother berating her – _a ruler is always composed Cirilla._ “We just need – **_Jaskier, where are you?!”_**

It had been Nilfgaard, it was _always_ Nilfgaard – always trying to take the people precious to her – but she wasn’t going to let them succeed.

**_“JASKIER!”_ **

She had only just found Geralt, and now she was going to lose him. They hadn’t even been _looking_ for her – they were a scouting party (and in the back of her mind, she thanked the Elders that it was _just_ a scouting party) who had stumbled into their path. Geralt had dealt with them all, but he hadn’t come out of it unscathed. No man may equal a witcher, but thirty men on horses came close.

It was all her fault. If they hadn’t been looking for her, if Geralt hadn’t come and found her, if she hadn’t ridden away with Roach instead of standing her ground and fighting like the _queen_ she was meant to be --

“Not your fault, little lioness,” A voice gasped out behind her, “And Geralt won’t be leaving you any time soon.”

She spun around, hand falling from the now bloody pendant to her dagger (Julien’s gift for her tenth winter) to see the man himself standing there. A bright red doublet sat loosely on his shoulders. There were dark shadows under his eyes. His skin was pale and stretched over his cheekbones. Soot was streaked across his forehead and coated his hands, stained his breeches and shirt. His hair was lank and sweaty. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Jaskier!” Citi went to run to him – to leap into his arms like she had done very time he came to court – but a groan drew her attention back to the situation at hand. “Jaskier, Geralt’s hurt!”

He stumbled forward and fell to his knees at her side. When his hands hovered over the largest wound, they shivered. That, out of everything, unnerved her the most. They had _always_ been steady.

“We need to move him.” Jaskier said after a moment. “We’re too exposed here.” With a grunt, he pulled Geralt into a sitting position. He glanced up at her. “Do you mind grabbing some bandages out of Roach’s saddlebags? Once we’ve stopped the bleeding, we can get out of here.”

As if in protest, Geralt shifted and squinted, a sliver of amber between pale eyelids. “Jas-Jaskier? What are you…?”

Jaskier smiled, but it was small and thin, not reaching his eyes. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, dear witcher. Ciri darling, Roach?”

Ciri hadn’t even noticed the horse, still standing where she’d left her in the mad dash to get to Geralt’s side. Her flanks were streaked with sweat. While she soothed her, unknotting the reins from where they’d fallen around the saddle, Jaskier wrapped bandages around the worst of Geralt’s wounds. Several cuts snuck through gaps in his armour, a large gash up one thigh where a fallen soldier (fallen, but not dead) had tried to hamstring him but missed, a slice over his eyebrow dripping blood down his forehead and into his hair. When the wound across his stomach – the largest and most life threatening – immediately bled through the bandage, the bard pulled off his doublet and used it as extra padding, binding it to the witcher with his own weapons’ belt. _At least,_ Ciri thought hysterically, _you can’t see the blood through all the red anyway._

Geralt moaned and slumped forward at one strong tug of the bandage, pressing his nose against Jaskier’s shoulder. “Jask – you’re – why’re you… Ciri, where…” His eyes were open wider now, but unseeing.

Ignoring him, the bard hook one arm under Geralt’s and the other around his hips. “Alright, up you get.” With a grunt, Geralt was on his feet for all of a second before slumping against Jaskier’s chest. Bright blue eyes turned to her. “Mind bringing Roach a little closer, dear one?”

Getting Geralt onto the horse was an ordeal. It involved a lot of swearing (which Jaskier asked her, breathlessly, to never repeat in Geralt’s hearing) and pain, given how Geralt keened as his injured leg was guided into the stirrups. Ciri shuddered. She never wanted to hear that noise again.

Once Geralt was more or less in the saddle, slumped over Roach’s neck in the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, Jaskier held his arms out to her. “Alright dear one, your turn.”

“What?”

“Someone needs to ride with Geralt to make sure he doesn’t fall off.” Brushing away her protests – Jaskier looked like he needed a ride more than she did _and_ he didn’t have shoes – he swung her onto the back of the saddle.

With a click of his tongue, they were off. Ciri didn’t know where they were going nor did she particularly care. She was more worried about the new wounds she could see on Geralt’s back, and Jaskier, who was stumbling as he ran beside Roach deeper into the forest.

“Ju-Jaskier… what happened to you?” Asking that first question opened the gates to more, and Ciri was helpless to stop the words from falling out of her mouth. “How did you get here so fast – why are you covered in soot – you look so tired – are you hurt – where are your _shoes –”_

“Dear one,” Jaskier began, cutting her off, “It’s a very long story. Right now, I just want to get away from those soldiers and somewhere I can treat Geralt’s wounds.” He refused to look up at her. His hand on Roach’s reins was white knuckled. Even as she watched, his grip grew tighter.

The skin split.

Ciri cried out, shocking Geralt into consciousness, looking around as much as he could against Roach’s neck. “Ciri, what – where –”

Jaskier looked down at his hand, where dull red (and gold?) was flaring from the split in his knuckles, and sighed. He reached up in between strides, patting her leg with his healthy hand. “It’s okay little one, nothing that can be worried about right now.” His hand moved to Geralt then, rubbing at the fingers that tangled in Roach’s mane. “Not much longer, dear heart. Almost there.”

 _There_ seemed to be a small clearing near a stream that bubbled merrily as Jaskier helped Ciri down from the saddle. She caught his hurt hand before he could pull away and ran her thumb over the cut.

She flinched.

It felt… _soft?_ Like feathers.

Jasker pulled his hand away and pressed it against her face. “I’ll answer all your questions when you’re safe, little one.” Her murmured.

Ciri nodded unhappily. She could only watch as he reached up towards Roach’s saddle. She expected him to pull Geralt own, maybe try to wake him up first to make the dismount easier, but all he did was pull out an empty water skin.

“Jaskier, what –”

“Shhh!” Ciri flinched at the harsh hiss, and Jaskier looked at her apologetically. “Sorry little one, but I need to concentrate. Remember, questions once you’re safe.”

At her confirming nod, Jaskier quickly filled the skin before returning to her side. He took a deep breath. From the depths of his chest came a low hum. It seemed to vibrate through the air into her bones. It reminded her a little of her own… _powers,_ that _chaos_ that ran through her veins. But it wasn’t intimidating, it was almost warm. No, it _was_ warm! The air hadn’t been very cold to begin with, but now Ciri was starting to sweat. Jaskier’s humming grew in pitch, rising and falling within the higher octaves till it was more like a trill, or a whistle, and Ciri started. She _recognised_ that tune! Jaskier had sung it to her when she got sick one winter! He had spent the night by her side, giving her water and laying cool cloths over her forehead, and when she’d woken up that morning, she’d felt a lot better. He’d serenaded her over breakfast, _a ditty in celebration of your health,_ he’d called it.

Then she noticed – Jaskier didn’t have her lute.

The bard, still humming, held the water skin near his face.

Ciri stared.

Crystalline tears were running down his face. Looking closer, she could tell that the tears were _actually crystal,_ with facets and everything, solidifying the second they escaped his half open eyes. When they dropped into the water skin, they chimed. Her fingers scrambled for her necklace. Ciri’s eyes flickered from the still falling tears to the pendant. _It’s been smoothed, but it’s still the same shape…_ she stepped closer, pressing against Jaskier’s side. His humming didn’t falter, but a smile flickered across his lips as he glanced down. The red and gold _feathers_ emerging from his wound, and the tiny scrap of red in her necklace… Jaskier’s feathers were much duller, almost dusty, but still…

The humming trailed off, but the heat remained. Jaskier sighed and lowered the water skin. He looked even more drawn now, with pale blue veins visible up his neck. His body wracked with shivers.

Ciri wrapped her arms around his waist with a cry. “Jaskier, are you okay?” _Obviously he isn’t,_ she berated herself as soon as the words left her lips, _people don’t just shake like they’ve got the auge!_

Jaskier didn’t answer, instead swirling the water skin around. She expected to hear the chimes of the tears hitting the side, but there was nothing but the swoosh of water. “Help me give this to Geralt,” He said after a moment. His voice was hoarse.

Help, it turned out, involved Ciri being put back onto Roach and helping lean Geralt into an upright position. Under Jaskier’s direction, she carefully helped the witcher drink about half the water before leaning him back down. The rest apparently was for her.

“Drink some of that – it’ll help.”

She held it to her lips, but hesitated. “Shouldn’t _you_ drink some?”

Jaskier shook his head with a mirthless smile. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work on me.”

The water tasted fresh and cool, like it had just come from the courtyard well in the middle of winter. It warmed her up from the inside, bringing relief to the pains she didn’t even know she had – an ache in her legs from the harsh riding, a couple of bruises from the invasion that hadn’t quite healed yet…

When Jaskier reached up to take it back, his sleeve slid down. The skin up his forearm split. More of those _feathers –_ faded red and dull gold and browning orange, like leaves in the middle of Autumn – emerged from the torn skin, rustling a little in the breeze. He met her concerned gaze. “Don’t worry about it, little lioness. I’ll be alright.”

Any protests Ciri was planning was derailed by Geralt’s groan. He shot upright in the saddle, almost knocking her off if it wasn’t for Jaskier’s supportive hand. “Where – Ciri, where are –” He swung his head from side to side, breathing deep, before hunching over his stomach.

Ciri pressed her hands against his shoulders. “I’m right here Geralt. We’re with Jaskier, he helped us!”

“Jaskier…?” Geralt looked up – slowly this time – and turned to meet the bards’ eyes. His hand reached back to take hers. Jaskier, she noticed, had tucked his hurt arm behind his back.

“Geralt.” He said with a nod. “I didn’t mean to _inconvenience_ you with my presence, but I swore to protect Cirilla, and she asked me to help you.” His voice was cold and distance in a way she’d never heard.

Geralt flinched. “Jaskier, how do you know Ciri?” This close, Ciri could see how the scrapes on his back had stopped bleeding. Wiping away the half-dried blood, she saw a wound that was steadily shrinking.

His smile was thin. “You are not the only one bound to this Destiny, Geralt. I didn’t think it fair for your Child Surprise to bear the punishment for other’s actions.” Jaskier shook his head. “Anyway, we need to be going. I assume you’re headed towards Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt nodded slowly. “It’s the only place Nilfgaard won’t find her. Jaskier, why –”

“So you need to get there fast.” Jaskier didn’t seem inclined to let Geralt get a word out – indeed, he barely seemed to care for the witcher. _Very different from how he acted when Geralt was unconscious,_ Ciri noted.

“Yes, but I can’t find Yen –“

“Yennifer was involved in the Battle at Sodden Hill. She’s not up to portalling anyone anywhere, if that’s what you’re going to suggest.”

“Is she alive?”

At the desperation in Geralt’s voice, Jaskier softened. “She’s alive Geralt. Hurt, tired, weak and pissed off, but alive.”

Geralt slumped a little in relief. His wound didn’t seem to be hurting him as much anymore. Something that he was quick to notice, running a hand over the doublet still wrapped around his middle. “Jaskier, how did you find us? I wasn’t – I wasn’t expecting to survive that.”

“I wasn’t exactly going to give you a choice,” Jaskier’s voice became cold again, “You have a responsibility now Geralt, and I’m not going to let you shirk it like you have for the past thirteen years.” He looked like he was going to say something else, but he shuddered before he could. There was a faint sound, like tearing fabric, but when Jaskier hunched over, his shirt was intact. Barely. The fabric at his shoulders and ribs stretched, and something red pressed at it from the inside. A tiny feather was snatched up before it could hit the ground.

“What is going on?” Geralt sounded like he was a moment away from getting off Roach and _making_ Jaskier explain.

“No time.” Jaskier said shortly. “Geralt, I need you to imagine the keep. Hold the image as tightly in your mind as you can.”

“Not until you explain!”

“ ** _NO!”_** The sound Jaskier made wasn’t human, high pitched like a screech. It blew back Ciri’s hair in a wave of warmth. The tear up Jaskier’s arm lengthened, more feathers pushing at the shirt. Geralt had finally noticed.

“Jas—”

“ ** _CAN YOU SEE THE KEEP?!”_** His voice was inhumanely scratchy, and while he wasn’t speaking loudly, there was a definite force to his words.

When Geralt nodded mutely, Jaskier reached up and placed a hand in theirs. “ ** _Keep that image in your mind, dear heart,”_** Jaskier whispered, **_“And if you ever trusted me – ever thought of me as more than an annoyance – please, don’t let go.”_**

There was a whoosh, like the sound of a water fall, or the rush of fire consuming new fuel, and then all Ciri could feel was a comforting, all consuming warmth, and all she could see was a world of red, gold and orange.


	2. No Need To Say Goodbye

Ciri had always known there was more to Julien – _Jaskier, his names Jaskier –_ than meets the eye. The way her Grandmother, who didn’t submit to anyone, allowed Jaskier to essentially do as he wished around the castle with no reaction but a tension to her lips and jaw. The way he never became cold, even in the darkest depths of winter. The way he was always brighter, happier, more vibrant than anyone else in court.

As the flames surrounding her died down, Ciri wondered how she never realised just how much _more_ Jaskier was.

And then all such thoughts left her mind, as the bard crumpled to the ground before Roach’s hooves.

“ _Jaskier!”_ She cried, springing from the saddle. There were other people in the stone-walled room, she noticed – a large man with greying hair and beard, a taller man with dark brown hair, a man who would have looked like Geralt’s twin if it wasn’t for the dark hair and scars running down his face, all of them witchers with golden eyes – but the vast majority of her attention was focused on the bard who hadn’t made a sound since he’d… portalled? Teleported? Used fire to bring them here. Ciri crouched at his side and pressed a hand against the cheek facing up. He was _cold._ Jaskier was never cold.

After a moment, large, wrinkled hands appeared beside hers. “Move out of the way a moment, child.” The grey-haired witcher murmured. “Let’s get him up the right way.”

Together, they rolled Jaskier onto his back. Under fluttering eyelids, Jaskier’s eyes rolled wildly. The feathers emerging from his arm looked paler, the golds faded. Another tear had appeared up his leg – there were more feathers, but also the hint of pale yellow scales. The witcher cursed under his breath. Even as they watched, Jaskier convulsed, and there was the sound of tearing fabric as feathers peeked out of the bottom of his shirt.

Geralt kneeled at Jaskier’s other side, helped by the scarred man. His wounds looked a lot better, but he still moved gingerly. “Vesemir, what’s wrong with him?” A hand reached out to touch one of the feathers, and the witcher – Vesemir? – slapped it away.

“Don’t touch a phoenix’s feathers, lad.” He looked up at the scarred man, who’d been joined by the other witcher. “Eskel, Lambert, go and get the firewood from outside – we’re going to need a much larger fire if we don’t want the bard to die.”

“Die?!” Ciri burst out. “No, he can’t die! Jaskier promised he wouldn’t leave me – he said that he’d _always_ be there for me!” She reached down for her pendant once more, squeezing it in one fist. “You _promised_ Jaskier! You said it every year – you _promised_ that you’d always come back. You _can’t die!”_

Vesemir put a gentle hand on her shoulder, glancing down at the pendant with a strange look in his eye. “That’s why I’m getting the fire built up, child. Do you know anything about phoenixes?”

“No, I didn’t even know he _was_ one!” She held out her pendant to the man, ignoring the way Geralt choked beside her. “He gave me this when I was eight – he said that it had a little piece of him in it, so I could call him if he was in trouble. I didn’t know that Jaskier _actually_ had feathers!”

“A phoenix gifting a part of himself is very rare, and a very great honour,” Vesemir murmured. He wrapped her hand tighter around the pendant. “It is a gift many would kill for, child, so keep it safe.”

As the other witchers came back into the room, logs piled high in their arms, Vesemir got to his feet with a groan. “Pack those around the edges of the fireplace, lads,” He instructed, waving them over to the large fireplace on the opposite wall, “Put one layer of logs in the middle and then build up the sides.”

There was a cough to Ciri’s left. “Princess…” Geralt began, “How do you know Jaskier?”

She went to answer – how could she _not_ know Jaskier – when the bard in question convulsed once again, more violently than before. An arm that was more feather than human hit her in the stomach, sending her sliding back a metre or so. Geralt had also been batted away, and the streak of blood on the ground showed that at least one would had reopened. Vesemir turned away from where he was supervising the fire building and cursed. “Eskel, help Geralt and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself worse. Lambert, with me.”

Lambert came over and grasped the bard just under the knees, carefully avoiding contact with the feathers emerging just below his fingers. Vesemir caught Jaskier under his shoulders after wrapping his hands in his coat. When Ciri went to help – Jaskier’s hands were dragging against the ground, he loved his hands more than anything else – she was waved away.

“I need you to pick up his feathers. None of us can touch them without causing _more_ issues,” The greying witcher explained. “The bard trusted you enough to give you one of his feathers – and one of his tears, if I’m seeing things right – so I don’t think he’d mind you touching these ones.” And indeed, there were dozens of feathers scattered across the ground, a trail following the bards path across the room.

Both Vesemir and Lambert had to readjust their grip more than once as Jaskier began to writhe in earnest. Shrill cries came from his throat, reminding Ciri unpleasantly of the hawks her grandmother had – _used_ to have – and the sounds they’d made when hooded. When he was being settled in the fireplace, Jaskier curled into the centre of the log pile with a croon, wrapping both arms – now feather covered – around himself. Vesemir waited till Lambert had moved away before making a strange sign with his hands.

Jaskier, and the wood, burst into flames.

Ciri **_screamed._**

It was like that day in the woods again – she didn’t have control over her own body, the terrifying coldness of her _chaos_ filling her and escaping through her mouth, the pain of her throat almost an afterthought. The four witchers were flung to the far edges of the room. The long table slammed into the opposite wall. The chairs followed, shattering into pieces upon contact. The front doors shuddered.

It was Jaskier who broke Ciri out of her _chaoscold **protect**_ haze.

There was a trill, a croon, a whistle. There was a gentle warmth coming from her pendant. There was a voice echoing at the edges of her mind – _I am okay, little one._

Ciri breathed in. Closed her mouth. The front doors stopped shuddering. The witchers fell from their pinned positions against the wall. In the fire, glowing blue eyes met hers. _I will heal, little one. Don’t be scared. You’re safe now._

She stumbled closer to the fireplace; hands still full of Jaskier’s feathers. “Are you _really_ going to be alright Jaskier?” She asked quietly. To her shame, tears were running hot down her face, and Jaskier crooned sadly.

_Don’t waste your tears on me, little lioness. I am right where I need to be._

“What do you _mean?”_ Her voice came out like more of a whine than a question, and Ciri tried to stifle her sobs. With a thump, Ciri dropped to the ground. “Jaskier, what’s going _on?”_

Vesemir came and sat at her side. “Your bard is a phoenix,” He began to explain. In the fire, Jaskier’s eyes closed. “I don’t know much about them – they were thought to have all disappeared centuries ago after they were hunted almost to extinction. What little I do know comes from books written by Witcher’s who worked with Greater Phoenixes – like your bard.”

Geralt thumped to the ground on her other side, with Eskel standing at his shoulder with a blanket. “You’re shivering,” he said quietly, and Ciri was surprised to notice that, despite her proximity to the fire, she was still cold.

“Greater Phoenixes?” Geralt murmured after Ciri had gotten herself comfortable.

“Think of them as being similar to Higher Vampires. Most phoenixes are akin to highly intelligent birds – incapable of human speech, but more than mindless beasts. Greater Phoenixes are capable of greater magics, and some believe that they’re the only phoenixes capable of reproducing.” There was a mournful whistle from the fire, and Ciri swallowed thickly. “Apparently, they are also able to take a human form.”

Here, Vesemir paused. “Now, the literature seem to argue about this, but the one thing they all agree on is that phoenixes, greater or lesser, require fire in some form or another in order to stay alive. One Witcher swore that Greater Phoenixes went through what he called a ‘burning day’ every year, renewing their youth for another year. If they _didn’t_ go through this burning day, they would die. Another said that only the Lesser Phoenixes needed a burning day, and the Greater Phoenixes only went through burning days to heal. Either way, Phoenixes are immortal, and almost impossible to kill.”

Geralt made some kind of noise beside her, and Ciri glanced up to see his eyes go wide. “Jaskier’s… immortal?” His voice was thick in a way she hadn’t heard since they’d first met.

Lambert returned then, bearing Roach’s saddlebags, and she felt a pang of guilt. She had forgotten all about the poor horse in their rush to help Jaskier. And speaking of… “Is that why you set him on fire?” She asked quietly, “To heal him?”

“I hoped that it would help,” Vesemir admitted. “The way his feathers looked, the way they were tearing his body… it didn’t look healthy.”

_It wasn’t,_ came the low croon. By the way all the Witchers’ seemed to snap to attention, they could hear it too.

Jaskier’s eyes were open again, and they shifted closer to the edge of the fire. Ciri could see the outline of a large head, trailing off into a long neck, in the way the fire moved. _I had overexerted myself,_ Jaskier admitted slowly. _When I heard that Cintra had fallen, but Ciri hadn’t contacted me, I fire-travelled as close to the capital as I dared. You must have already escaped, little one, because I couldn’t sense you. I ended up saving Mousesack and a few others before it became too dangerous for me to remain. From there, I ended up at Sodden Hill with Yennefer and the rest of her sorcerers…_ The fire seemed to shudder then, like it had been hit by a strong breeze, before calming. _Yennefer almost killed herself casting a fire spell to turn back Nilfgaard, and I had to merge with the fire to help her… and regaining my human form was difficult… I had been clearing a path through Cintra for the refugees, hoping to find you with them, when I heard your call little one. Then there was the fire-travel to you, and healing Geralt, and then the travel here…_

Vesemir sounded amazed when he said, “It seems the strength of a Greater Phoenix had been underestimated – the power it must have taken to transport not only yourself but others across the Continent…”

_It weakened me enough that I could not hold onto my human form,_ Jaskier crooned, _and there were… extenuating circumstances._

“You almost killed yourself… trying to save me?” Ciri huddled deeper into her blanket and smothered the chaos that began to creep cold around her throat. How many people died for her when Cintra fell? How many more will?

A wordless croon then, filling Ciri with warmth and resting around her shoulders like an arm – or a wing. _For you, my dearest little lioness, I would burn down the Continent to see you smile,_ Jaskier trilled. There was a moment of silence, interrupted only by the crackle and pop of wood, before he continued. _There is no weapon that can kill a Greater Phoenix,_ Jaskier murmured. _If one were to stab me in the heart, my fire would heal me. Were I to be drowned, the water in my lungs would dissolve into steam. To dismember me would fail, as I would just reform. I can die again, and again, and again, and come back._

_But if I was to give up on life… if I was to let my fire die out to ashes…_ Jaskier crooned mournfully. _My parents decided to smother their flames after the rest of my nest-mates were killed by humans for their feathers. One of my closest friends just didn’t reform one day, after a dwarf pulled her apart to see if her bones really were made of crystal, as some legends say. I have seen all of my kin fade away into smoke. I am the last Phoenix on the Continent._

_If you were to die, little one, I would have allowed my fire to go out, so that my soul could join yours in the afterlife._

Glowing blue eyes shifted to stare into Geralt’s. _If you were to die today, dear heart, I would still live. For Ciri, I would have stayed. But it would have been a constant battle to keep my fire going. Phoenixes, despite our immortality, share their heart with only one other. No matter what you say to me, you still hold my heart, and I will not take it back._

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said hoarsely, shifting closer to the fire until he was almost sitting in it, “You were only trying to help me, as you always do, and as I always did, I threw it back in your face. Why would you still care for me when I don’t deserve it?”

_You were also hurting, dear heart._ Much to Ciri’s surprise, crystal tears began to drip from Jaskier’s eyes, shattering in the flames. _Love isn’t something one deserves, but something you are given without expecting in return._

Ciri couldn’t stand it anymore. With a sob, she threw herself forward. Warm wings wrapped around her, and she was tucked into feathers softer than any blanket. It wasn’t until she heard Geralt, crying out in panic, that she realised what she did.

_I just threw myself into the fireplace!_

There was a soothing croon from Jaskier, and a curved beak nuzzling through her hair. _You are very lucky, little lioness,_ he murmured, _that my fire only burns those I wish to burn, otherwise you would be in a lot of pain._

When she opened her eyes, Ciri could see feathers in various shades of red, liberally dusted with gold. Underneath her cheek, she could feel Jaskier’s heart beating slowly. She had never felt safer. Her eyes began to droop shut as the day’s events caught up to her. There was a shift, the wing at her back rising, until there was another body there. Geralt curved around her, one arm reaching across her body to tangle in Jaskier’s feathers.

Ciri let herself fall into sleep, secure in the knowledge that her precious people were here, and were _safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOOOOOOOO!!!  
> So that happened! Hey guys, here’s the next, and probably last, chapter of ‘I’ll Come Back (When You Call Me)’. I will write more about Phoenix! Jaskier – a sequel looking at Geralt’s POV during this, and how he and Jaskier kiss and make up, a 5+1 maybe of times Geralt didn’t realise he was a phoenix and one time he did (you know, that will probably have his side of this chapter in it), and some more Jaskier backstory at some point too!  
> This was written in one day, over about an hour and a half, and I’m pretty damn happy with it. I apologise for any typos – just sing out and I’ll fix them – and I hope you’ve enjoyed the ‘comfort’ part of this hurt/comfort.   
> To those who wanted a second part, I hope this meets expectations!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my very late submission for writer’s month – and yes, it is more hurt than comfort, but I can promise at least one more chapter to close things off, and then I’m thinking of writing more prequel/sequel kind of things. I’ll figure it out. Anyway, I decided to do this from Ciri’s point of view, because I like Ciri’s character. I hope I do her justice. I'm also pretty sure I've made Jaskier's creature obvious, but if you don't get it, well....   
> Tell me what you think on tumblr @celebrimbor97


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